


Where Are All the Good Men Dead: In the Heart or in the Head?

by DeliberateMisspelling



Series: Black Humor [2]
Category: Suits (TV)
Genre: I Don't Even Know, It May Have Gone too Far, M/M, Sequel, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-24
Updated: 2012-10-24
Packaged: 2017-11-16 22:39:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/544621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeliberateMisspelling/pseuds/DeliberateMisspelling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to <i>I Killed The President of Paraguay with a Fork.</i> Things take a turn for the distinctly darker when Mike's past catches up to him, and to Harvey.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where Are All the Good Men Dead: In the Heart or in the Head?

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own Suits, because if I did things like this would probably end up being canon, and really that would be bad.  
> Edited, mostly kinda sorta, but unbeta'd.  
> I apologize in advance, but I kind of really dig it. See the end for more notes.

This can’t be happening. It can’t possibly be true, because it’s Mike. The same Mike who blew the skull off a Russian mobster and snapped the neck of his oldest friend in the same evening, for Harvey.

It can’t possibly be happening, Harvey tells himself again as he absently rubs the permanent pinprick of blue ink on his wrist from the time Mike stabbed a mugger through the hand with a ballpoint pen while he was fumbling with the clasp of Harvey’s watch. Because Mike did that _for_ Harvey, and he wouldn’t do it for anybody else.

Just because Harvey doesn’t want it to be happening doesn’t mean that it isn’t, because there are silver handcuffs tight tight tight around Mike’s wrists, and they’re not the fun kind. The fact that Mike is probably just pleased he hasn’t been arrested makes an entirely inappropriate giggle bubble in Harvey’s throat and Donna spins in her chair to eye him shrewdly. Harvey makes the appropriate facial expression, and she steps into his office.

He holds the photograph out to her, and she takes it tentatively. Her eyes flick down and then up again nearly as quickly.

“Christ, Harvey,” she breathes, “What the hell?”

“Mike’s trouble,” Harvey informs her carefully, “More than you know. And now he’s in trouble.”

“I can see that,” Donna tosses the Polaroid back onto his desk, “What did you do?”

Harvey chuckles a little again, thinks vaguely that Mike is rubbing off on him too much, and says “It wasn’t me.”

“I sincerely doubt the kid got himself in this much trouble on his own,” Donna scoffs, giving him a pointed look.

“Donna, darling, you would be _mortified,”_ Harvey gestures at the nearest chair. She sinks into it wordlessly and waits. Harvey watches her for a moment, considers exactly how much of Mike’s past, _their_ past, he’s going to tell her, and then decides all of it.

“A year and a half ago Mike shot Malvina Strekalov in the head,” he begins, and in a testament to Donna being Donna, she only gasps quietly before motioning for him to continue.

“In all fairness, she was trying to kill me,” Harvey offers, and Donna rolls her eyes.

“What else haven’t you been telling me, Specter? Should I be on the lookout for spooks and IRA members too?” she asks, and his eyebrows twitch just slightly.

“Right, right. Mike’s in trouble. Go on.”

“It wasn’t exactly a onetime thing, you know. Him being a bit of a pothead is no longer in the realm of ‘Things Mike Could Potentially be in Trouble For.’ In all likelihood, this has got something to do with one of the thirty-three people that came before Strekalov,” Harvey continues, and if Donna wasn’t already sitting she’d be on the floor.

“Mike? Mike Ross. Puppy dog Mike Ross who cares more about his grandmother than most people are capable of caring about themselves?” Donna is incredulous, and Harvey can’t exactly blame her.

“I wouldn’t have believed it either, except I saw him come goddamn close to pulling Trevor Evan’s head clean off his body,” Harvey almost shrugs, and Donna just huffs out a disbelieving sigh.

“Again, in all fairness, he did think Trevor had just shot me in the head.”

“For fuck’s sake, Harvey!”

“Donna, language,” Harvey scolds mildly, but Donna’s had about enough.

“Don’t you ‘Donna’ me, Harvey Reginald Specter! In the last two minutes I’ve learned that not only did Mike Ross murder two people in cold blood, _for you_ , but that he’s apparently some kind of contract killing scary split personality superhero fake lawyer who’s gotten his ass kidnapped!” Donna wants to shout, but she doesn’t. Instead she hisses all this at Harvey in a tone that makes his genitalia creep just a little bit up into his body cavity. Not that she’ll ever know that, of course.

“There’s more,” Harvey informs her carefully when he finds his voice again. Donna’s face goes blank as she silently fumes at him.

“What?” she growls finally, when it becomes clear he’s waiting for her to ask.

“This isn’t about money. There’s no ransom demand; there’s just the photo. Whoever has him? They know the only way to hurt Mike is to hurt me, and the best way to hurt me is to hurt him. It’s all very convoluted, but they _know_ , Donna.” For the first time, Harvey sounds a little bit scared.

“They know _what_?” The fact that Harvey’s beating around the bush frightens Donna even more than Mike’s bruised and bloodied face grinning up at her from the Polaroid on the desk.

“That he loves me, and that,” Harvey blanches a little, because this is something he does not say outside the confines of his condo, “I love him.”

If she’s honest, that little tidbit floors Donna more than all the parts about Mike being a murderous psychopath.

“ _Finally_ ,” is all she can manage.

 

* * *

 

 

Mike’s fucking head hurts. He knows it’s selfish, but really it’s the only coherent thought he can force out of his brain right now. Sure, by now Harvey’s got the photo and he’s probably going out of his mind in that quiet, simmering rage way he does when he’s refusing to rise to the bait, but Mike’s head _fucking hurts_ , and that’s really not helping him get the hell out of where he is.

Where he is isn’t all that great, either. Large building, concrete floors, high windows with bars run the length and width of the building. His yelling has been bouncing around and echoing back at him without so much as an answering car horn, so he’s some desolate warehouse somewhere in the middle of nowhere. The only things in the building, as far as he can see from his spotlighted position in the center, anyway, are a stainless steel chair, a few pairs of handcuffs, and bony Mike Ross who’s head fucking hurts.

He’s been considering breaking his own thumbs to slide out of the cuffs for a while, but broken hands won’t help him at all with the cuffs on his ankles so for now the situation stands. Mike’s admittedly pathetic concentration is broken by the door roughly fifty feet behind him creaking open. Mike sighs a little in exasperation.

“Mr. Ross! Well... only for lack of information, Michael, but no matter. The nobody pseudonym is fitting for you, I suppose. How’re you feeling?” The voice behind him is jovial, although the hand that tousles his hair knows goddamn well how he’s feeling.

“My name _is_ Michael Ross,” Mike practically whimpers, “And whoever you think I am, I’m _not._ I’m a lawyer, I work for Harvey Specter at Pearson-Hardman.”

“Tut, tut Michael.” The hand lays a resounding smack to the back of his head, making Mike grunt, “The kicked puppy act won’t work on me. Neither will pretending to be anything other than who and _what_ I know you to be. And if you think, for one stupid second, that Harvey _Specter_ is going to be able to save you, you’re wrong. The fact that he’ll be worse off at the end of all this than you is just an added bonus.”

Mike growls at the idea that, in combination with the pounding in his head, make him snap his teeth at the fingers trailing down his cheek. He receives a solid backhand cross his cheekbone and nose that rocks the front two legs of the chair off the ground in return.

“Oh Michael,” the voice chuckles, and for the first time since Mike had a bag yanked over his head and was shoved unceremoniously into the trunk of a cramped midsize sedan, the man responsible for his current situation steps into his sightline, “We’re going to have ourselves so much fun.”

Mike’s last thought before the length of rebar in the man’s other hand makes contact with his skull is “Sorry, Harvey,” because he’s not going home.

 

* * *

 

 

“I need a favor.” Some of Harvey’s favorite words to hear, and by far his least favorite to say. Terrence Wolf smirks at him.

“Mr. Specter,” Harvey can hear the laughter in his voice, “What can I do for you?”

“I need the case files for all the unsolved high profile murder cases in the Five Burroughs in the last...” Harvey thinks for a moment, “Eight years.”

“Rejoining the pursuit of justice, Harvey? I thought the Danner case was a fluke,” Wolf queries, a calculating look in his eyes.

“It’s personal,” Harvey retorts sharply, and says no more. Wolf regards him for a long moment, fingers steepled and lips pursed.

“I’ll owe you one,” Harvey offers finally, and Wolf breaks into a sharp-toothed grin.

“You’ll owe me more than that, Specter,” he taunts, leaning forward to pick a pen up of his desk, “I’ll have the boxes sent to your office. Clear a conference room for them.”

The next morning finds Harvey and Donna standing in the doorway of a conference room stacked floor-to-ceiling, length and breadth with cardboard boxes.

“What, exactly, are we looking for again?” Donna asks, an appraising look on her face. Harvey sighs, because his only answer is vague at best.

“Anything that feels like _Mike_ ,” he half-shrugs, stepping inside.

“Right,” Donna scoffs as the door swings shut behind them, “Because Mike commits murders.”

 

* * *

 

 Mike is drifting in and out of consciousness, and  has been for a while. He vaguely remembers choking on a liquid he certainly hoped was water when it was poured down his throat, and passing out again shortly thereafter.

Only now he can’t drift anymore, because there’s a voice sing-songing what sounds an awful lot like taunting in his ear.

“Wake up, Mr. Ross! I have a couple of questions for you, sleepy-head!”

A thumb and forefinger pinch his earlobe and tug sharply. Mike winces and groans, cracking his eyes open.

“What?” he mumbles with as much malice as he can muster.

“Well, first Mike, you’re going to tell me where that lovely little tattoo you have is, because frankly the idea of cutting your clothes off just to look for it is a little bit... icky. And then you’re going to tell me what you did with my brother’s body.”

What Mike realizes slowly is a filet knife is being swung absently in front of his eyes, and for a second Mike is so distracted he forgets what tattoo Anthony Evans is talking about.

“Focus, Mike!” he digs the point of the knife into Mike’s cheek just shy of wholly puncturing it.

“Tattoo?” Mike blinks grittily, and then grins faintly, “Oh yeah. On my ribs, on the left.”

Anthony grunts, and slices Mike’s shirt open to uncover a truly awful stick’n’poke tattoo between Mike’s second and third ribs that reads _420 T.E_.

“God,” Anthony rolls his eyes, “I’m eleven years older than you two idiots and even then I knew what complete potheads you were.”

“Wouldya look at us now?” Mike’s sore lungs can’t really manage guffawing but they try.

Anthony’s features sober immediately, and he sets the blade against Mike’s skin purposefully.

“He gave this to you. I’m taking it back.”

Mike half-gasps, half-chokes when the knife slides into his flesh, but he grits his teeth and looses a harsh laugh.

“Harvey’ll be so pleased. He _loathes_ that thing, maybe more than he loathed Trevor.”

“Don’t delude yourself, Michael,” Anthony replies cheerfully as blood streams over his latex gloved hands, “You won’t ever see him again. Although I suppose eventually he’ll see you.”

 

* * *

 

It’s one a.m. when Donna calls it quits. Harvey doesn’t leave the office, just showers in the Partner's bathroom and changes his suit. Donna brings him an incredibly large and incredibly strong coffee promptly at 7:15 a.m.

“There any food in that purse I bought you?” Harvey nods at her Balenciaga shoulder bag.

“You get pushy when you’re cranky.” She hands him a muffin.

“I’m always pushy,” Harvey retorts through a mouthful of cranberry orange muffin, “Let’s get back to work.”

Just before lunch Harvey cracks, a little bit.

“Donna,” he croaks in a tone she’s _never_ heard him use, “What if we don’t-”

“We will,” she interrupts firmly, because for all the things Donna knows, she doesn’t have a clue what could happen if Mike doesn’t come home.

“What if we’re looking in the wrong place?” Harvey’s head snaps up suddenly, his voice much stronger, “This isn’t about some stranger Mike killed for money.”

Harvey snaps his file shut and tosses it into the nearest box before striding towards the door, muttering angrily.

“Harvey!” Donna stops him with a hand on his arm before he can wrench the door open, “You want to fill me in here?”

“This is about Trevor,” he grins in a way that makes Donna’s release his arm hastily, “Find me everything you can about him while I’m gone.”

“What are _you_ doing?” Donna calls after him.

“Pressing ‘til it hurts!”

 

* * *

 

 “Uh, hello?” Jenny Griffith eyes Harvey from behind the chain lock on her front door.

“Harvey Specter. Mi-”

“Mike’s boss,” she interrupts, “Hang on.”

The door shuts for a moment and then reopens sans the chain, although she still doesn’t look very keen on letting him in. She leans one arm on the frame and holds the door with the other, still eyeing him.

“What’s he done now?” Jenny asks impatiently.

“I’m not here to talk about Mike. I’m here to talk about Trevor,” Harvey informs her coolly, and her eyebrows rise.

“I haven’t seen Trevor in nearly two years, and I don’t really have much to say about him,” she replies, still not moving out of the doorway.

“Trevor’s dead, Jenny. Somebody is threatening Mike over it, and I need to know who that might be.” Harvey leans towards her as he speaks, and though she swallows hard at his news she doesn’t give an inch.

“Trevor’s dead?” she repeats, “What happened to him? Why is Mike being blamed?”

Harvey has to admit to himself, a little bit, that he can sort of see why Mike liked her. Of course she’s currently being utterly unhelpful, so Harvey’s in no mood to be nice.

“ _Who_ might be threatening him, Ms. Griffith?” Harvey insists, and her eyes narrow.

“Why can’t Mike just tell you? He knows way more about Trevor than I ever did,” Jenny throws back, and Harvey grits his teeth.

“Mike is... indisposed, at the moment, which is why I’m asking you. Does anybody from Trevor’s life come to mind?” Harvey’s not going to go away until she answers him, which she seems to finally catch on to.

“Trevor’s got an older brother, Anthony. He was pretty protective of Trevor _and_ Mike when they were kids, until he got caught up in some pretty serious stuff. He went to prison, they lost touch. Last I knew Anthony had just gotten out of Sing Sing and Trevor was dubious about meeting for coffee. Hypocrite,” Jenny huffs out the last part, raking a hand through her hair, “Hey, is Mike all right?”

“He will be,” Harvey answers more firmly than he feels, and ignores her eyes on him as he hurries down the stairs, already on his phone.

“Donna? Anthony Evans. I’ll be back in a half hour.”

 

* * *

 

The fire on Mike’s side won’t go out. Blood has been bubbling out of his nose with every breath for the last four hours, but his mouth is too paper dry to breathe through. He’s so lightheaded that he’s giddy.

Giddy, hysterical. They’re basically the same thing, right?

“Harvey,” he giggles through a cough, “Harvey, c’mon dude. Turns out I could probably use a hand with this one. Harvey, seriously. Harvey!”

Suddenly Mike is wailing, a voice that doesn’t sound like his own tearing over and over out of his raw throat until he’s not making noise anymore, just mouthing the name repeatedly until his chin lolls tiredly onto his chest. Mike passes out again.

 

* * *

 

Donna is waiting for Harvey in his office when he returns.

“Anthony Evans,” she tosses a file on his desk as he sits down, “Was arrested in ’01 for robbing a liquor store and shooting the clerk.”

“The guy die?” Harvey asks, flipping the file open.

“No,” Donna answers, and opens her mouth to continue when Harvey snorts.

“The Evans boys. Lousy, lousy shots.”

“Okay then,” Donna quirks an eyebrow but moves on, “He got ten to fifteen at Sing Sing, got out in ’09 for good behavior. After that, things are spotty. Halfway houses and odd jobs until the middle of 2010 when he drops completely off the map. Hasn’t checked in with his P.O. since then. No sign that he and Trevor had contact after he got out, though, so maybe he just found out baby bro’s been dead since 2012.”

“All of this is telling me he’s the guy. None of it is telling me where to find him,” Harvey snarks without looking up from the file, and Donna counts to ten while reminding herself that with the day he’s having, maybe she should cut him some slack.

“There’s a guy, the P.O. says. Cellmate from Sing Sing Evans got a hold of as soon as he got out, despite the whole ‘don’t associate with known felons while you’re on parole’ clause.”

Harvey looks like he’s going to interrupt her, so she holds up a hand and goes on.

“Guys name is Quincy Richmond. He runs book out of a bar in the Bronx, as far as I can gather.”

Harvey mulls this information over for a moment.

“Go home and change into something a little less clean. Meet me back here in an hour.”

Donna nods, but doesn’t immediately head for the door.

“What?” Harvey huffs, still pouring over Anthony Evan’s file.

“Jessica wants to see you,” Donna grimaces, and this time she leaves.

  

* * *

 

 

Mike has to get the hell out, that much is certain. Harvey may be looking, but a dramatic rescue doesn’t seem to be forthcoming. Mike’s a cold, ruthless, calculating genius. He should be out of here already, although apparently working in such a decidedly non-criminal occupation has dulled his skills. He’s been stuck in this chair for nearly two days, and he’s no better off than he was when he got there.

This is a problem; one to be remedied sooner rather than later. Mike forces himself to open his eyes and take stock of the situation. With his chin still resting on his chest the first thing he sees is his tie, and suddenly the tie pins Harvey started making him wear six months back don’t seem so stupid.

 

* * *

 

 

“Where is Ross?” Jessica doesn’t look up from the contract she’s studying, pen in hand, when Harvey walks into her office.

“I don’t know,” Harvey tells her, and it’s the truth. She raises her head slowly to stare at him levelly.

“Why are their boxes of unsolved murder cases in Conference Room C?” She asks coolly, “And don’t tell me you don’t know.”

“I needed them,” Harvey shrugs, but the press of his lips tells Jessica there might be more to this story than she really wants to hear.

“Everything in its place, Harvey.” She returns to her paperwork.

“Of course.”

“Don’t willfully misunderstand me,” she throws at him as he exits.

 

* * *

 

 

It takes Mike six tries to gather his tie into his mouth. His jaw aches with the effort, but it’s nothing in comparison to the screaming fury of his brain as he whips his head to one side and throws the silk over his shoulder.

Mike closes his eyes and takes a shuddering breath, deep as his lungs can handle, willing the pounding of his pulse in his head to lessen. He grits his teeth and sets out to ignore it instead, because he does _not_ have time for it. Anthony has shown up every few hours, seemingly at random, and Mike has no idea when he’ll be back next.

As it turns out, getting the tie over his shoulder was the easy part. The knot has come loose during his extended captivity, but not enough for his stiff fingers to grasp the tie pin from where they rest against the seat of the chair.

So Mike sets his jaw again and disregards the screeching pain in his upper arms as he stretches his hands towards his shoulder blades, grappling for his tie. When he finally gets a hold of it, he jerks too hard and nearly finishes the job for Anthony by choking himself with his own goddamn tie. When he gets uncooperative fingers to loosen their grip and regains his shallow breathing pattern, he chuckles a little at the idea. It’s fitting, after all:  Trevor was always at his best with a length of nylon rope in his hands.

Mike manages to resist the urge to physically shake the thought away, but it’s a near thing that leaves him dizzy. Although maybe that’s the blood loss and head injury. No matter, his searching fingertips have found the head of tie pin and it slips easy into his waiting palm.

He takes another steadying breath, because if he drops this stupid, unnecessary accessory, he is going to die. The tendons and muscles of his wrist stretch and protest as he works the sharp end of the pin into the keyhole in the cuffs, but after that the muscle memory takes over and in less than a minute, his arms are free. Mike silently thanks Trevor for his childish insistence that they practice picking the lock on their own cuffs early on in their foray into professional murder. He does it without a trace of irony.

With his hands free Mike makes even quicker work of the cuffs around his ankles. It’s almost too easy, until he tries to stand and immediately drops to the ground. The equilibrium change makes him dry heave, but there is nothing in his stomach to expel. He simply lies on his side and groans for several long minutes, willing the numb muscles in his legs back to life. The patch of missing skin on his side is on fire where his elbow is digging into it.

He flops onto his back and wills bruised ribs to expand as the flood of pins and needles in his calves and thighs make him twitch uncontrollably. Slowly, with the flexing of his toes and the rotating of his ankles, the feeling in his legs returns. Mike feels almost fit enough to stand when the door creaks open.

“Goddamn it,” Anthony is hauling him up by his collar in a matter of seconds, “You always were too smart for your own good.”

Mike kicks in him the balls in reply, struggling as violently as he can manage to keep from being forced back into the chair.

“Son of a bitch!” Anthony swears, and a gun appears from the waistband of his jeans. Mike stills; from this distance even an Evans won’t miss.

“You’ll never know where Trevor is,” Mike croaks, and Anthony’s finger stops curling around the trigger.

“Tell me,” Anthony demands. Mike laughs cruelly.

“I _did_ tell you. I don’t know, exactly.” Mike’s laughter is cut off by the barrel of the gun slicing into his jaw as Anthony slams it across his face.

“Tell me!” he roars, but Mike shakes his head.

“Trevor didn’t even like you, in the end. Said you were too worthless to even make a decent criminal. Why do you even _care_?” Mike taunts, and Anthony’s jaw tightens.

“He was my baby brother. And you were his _best friend._ ”

“All right, all right,” Mike concedes when Anthony lifts the gun to strike again, “You really wanna know? I know a guy, a longshoreman. Stuffed him the trunk of a car in a shipping container headed for somewhere hot for two grand and some free legal advice. That’s Trevor:  he cost me money and favors ‘til the fuckin’ last.”

Mike laughs again, and he doesn’t stop when Anthony levels the gun at his forehead.

“I’m not as heartless as you, guy-whose-name-I-know-isn’t-really Mike Ross. I’ll at least make sure your boyfriend has your body to bury,” Anthony sneers, and cocks the gun.

“He’s not my boyfriend,” Mike shoots back, because Harvey isn’t. The term doesn’t even begin to come close. Anthony snorts and opens his mouth to reply. Mike wants to roll his eyes, because the idiot’s a half step away from monologuing, for Christ’s sake. Instead, Mike draws on a reserve of strength he didn’t know he was storing and launches himself at Anthony.

 

* * *

 

 

It’s easy enough to clear a shitty bar in the Bronx, even if impersonating a police officer is _technically_ a crime.

“Not you,” Donna flashes a sinister smile while shoving a man she knows only from his mug shot and arrest record back onto his bar stool.

“What? I didn’t do nothin’,” he half whines, glaring defiantly between Donna and Harvey, who has yet to stay anything.

“Well, if running book isn’t a crime, having the Yanks at even odds with the Sox certainly is,” Donna remarks nonchalantly, “But we’re not here to talk about that little indiscretion. Tell us what you know about Anthony Evans.

“I don’t know Anthony Evans,” Richmond shrugs.

“Bullshit,” Donna retorts cheerfully, “But that’s the fun part for me. My partner isn’t a huge fan of liars, but he does _love_ to box.”

Harvey figures cliché is as good a route as any at this point, and cracks his knuckles. Richmond visibly swallows.

“You’re the cops, you don’t beat people,” Richmond argues, and it’s Harvey’s turn to flash a wolfish grin.

“We do today. The guy that usually puts a stop to that isn’t around,” he growls. Richmond quirks his lips defiantly and says nothing.

Harvey breaks his nose. Donna offers him a tissue.

“Anthony Evans,” she repeats, as Harvey flexes his hand and scowls at the astonished expression on Richmond’s face.

“He was looking to start some import/export business, he said. I hooked him up with a guy I know that rented him a warehouse by the river in Jersey City,” Richmond tumbles out, his voice nasal and stuffy.

“Get that nose checked out,” Donna recommends graciously as Harvey drags her towards the door.

 

* * *

 

 

Donna makes a small, choked noise in the back of her throat when the shot goes off. Harvey doesn’t hear it, because he’s already six yards in front of her. His daily five mile run is suddenly no longer purely for vanity and the vague, misguided notion that it’ll make him live forever. The door he’s headed for isn’t five miles away, of course, but the time it takes him to reach it may as well be an eon.  

 

* * *

 

 

Anthony has him pinned to the concrete floor by his shoulders despite Mike’s four years of high school wrestling, and Mike is starting to wonder if this is the part where his life is supposed to flash before his eyes when a fast moving blur in dark clothes passes through his vision and Anthony is gone. It takes a swirl of bright red hair and the scent of Penhaligon’s Amaranthine for Mike to figure out what’s going on.

“Donna?”

“Hey, kid.” Donna is kneeling above him, gingerly cradling his head in her lap and the expression on her face would be called a smile if she didn’t look so worried. Mike blinks at her as he slowly comes to grips with the idea that if she is examining his injuries, that would make the tussling mass of incoherent shouting and punches on his left-

“Harvey!” Mike squirms away from Donna, to her intense dismay, “Harvey, stop!”

Mike searches frantically for the gun he knows Anthony lost his grip on after firing it aimlessly upon Mike’s impact with his torso. Harvey beats him to it and Anthony’s struggle ceases immediately when Harvey lurches to his feet to point the weapon at him.

“Harvey,” Mike shakes his head as he drags himself shakily to his feet,” Don’t.”

He staggers against Harvey’s side to find the older man is practically vibrating, furious and torn between his absolute desire to end Anthony Evan’s life and his generally overdeveloped, if marginally twisted, sense of morality. Mike has to lean for support but his fingers are strong as he works the gun out of Harvey’s hand.

“I want to,” Harvey insists, though he doesn’t dare grapple with Mike for possession of the gun.

“I know,” Mike nods wearily, “But that’s not who you are.”

Mike is forced to use both arms to aim the thing properly, but he wastes no time in pulling the trigger. Harvey has to catch him before the hits the ground just behind Anthony.

“Bleach,” Mike mumbles against Harvey’s chest as he’s lifted off his feet, “My blood’s everywhere. Bleach.”

Harvey glances searchingly at Donna, who is tucking the gun at the small of her back and looking almost frighteningly satisfied.

“Don’t worry your pretty little head, Specter. I’ll take care of it,” She assures him, and her face grows serious, “Take care of him.”

Harvey nods, Mike blinks, and he’s in the passenger seat of some overpriced coupe from the car club on the way back into the city.

“I’m getting blood on the seat,” Mike remarks, his head lolling against the headrest.

“I’ll have it detailed,” Harvey replies tightly, his knuckles white on the steering wheel and gear shift. He is driving slowly, for once, afraid to risk further injury to Mike or being pulled over with what looks more like a corpse than a person in the passenger seat.

“Don’t take me to the hospital,” Mike orders, and continues to talk over Harvey’s protests, “So many questions, the cops’ll get called, the _smell._ I can’t.”

Mike’s hand flutters in Harvey’s general direction, “I’m sure you have some overpriced concierge doctor you can call.”

 

* * *

 

There is no avoiding the doorman at Harvey’s building, whose face contorts in sympathy, confusion, and perhaps a little bit of fear at the sight of Mike. Harvey stalks straight past him, Mike curled in his arms, and snaps, “Don’t ask. There’s a doctor on his way, don’t hold him up when he arrives.”

“’M all right, s’not Harvey’s fault,” Mike pipes up, making Harvey glare fondly down at him.

“Hush, you.”

The doorman says nothing. He simply keys in the pass code for Harvey’s private elevator and returns to his post.

 

* * *

 

 

Mike continues to fade in and out for the duration of the events. He remembers having his nose set, his side being bandaged, having parts of his head shaved for stitches, but not the actual stitches themselves, the hushed argument at the foot of the bed that ended when Harvey announced decisively, “He won’t go. I’d be the first one to drag him there if I didn’t think he’d kill himself fighting me.”

Mike smiles smugly to himself and makes a mental note to fist bump Harvey when he feels better.

Mike is informed when he wakes up enough to be coherent that he has been mostly comatose for four days. Harvey looks like he hasn’t slept at all, and Mike tells him so.

“I haven’t, you ass. Taking care of an invalid with a skull fracture is incredibly time consuming,” Harvey retorts, and the doctor who has apparently set up shop in their bedroom throws him out.

It’s another two days after that before the doctor is comfortable leaving at all, and only after tasking Harvey with an extremely long list of instructions. As soon as Harvey is finished dead-bolting the front door he drags himself back into the bedroom and it takes nearly all of his immense willpower not to just flop down on the mattress next to Mike. Instead, he eases in slowly and shuffles carefully as close to Mike as he dares.

“Mm,” Mike hums and shifts towards to the weight and heat beside him.

“Stay,” Harvey grunts, “You’ll hurt yourself.”

“Won’t,” Mike argues grumpily, but he stops moving. Harvey searches for any spot on Mike’s body he can hold onto that isn’t bruised or tender or swollen. He can’t find one, and eventually settles for leaning his forehead lightly against Mike’s shoulder. Harvey knows it is the wrong time to ask, but he does it anyway.

“How many more people in this city want you dead, Mike?”

“At least a few, for various reasons.”

“Jesus,” Harvey breathes, “What are we gonna do?”

“Nothing. If somebody really wants you dead, Harvey, you get dead. I’d know, remember?”

“How can you live like that?”

“There are probably some people out there that would prefer you dead too, aren’t there?” It is a rhetorical question, which is a relief because Harvey doesn’t have an answer. It’s so quiet for a long time that Harvey is sure Mike has drifted off again.

“I’ve trained you pretty well without realizing I was doing it. You _found me_ , Harvey, you and Donna. We’ll do all right,” Mike assures him from the dark. Harvey swallows and nods, his hair tickling across Mike’s skin. For the first time since a manila envelope with his name scrawled across it in black sharpie made its way onto his desk, Harvey falls asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> So maybe it's a little much. Sue me. I got a bit lost in this universe, and decided about halfway through that, screw it, I'm just making up exactly whatever I want, because I can.  
> Also, teehee, BAMF Donna.


End file.
